


Let me up, let me out (Into the sun)

by ladyoftintagel



Category: Revenge (TV)
Genre: Canada, F/M, Post-Series, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 07:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25466995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoftintagel/pseuds/ladyoftintagel
Summary: When she casually drops into the seat across from him, Nolan knows it's her before he even looks up from his drink. She has this unmistakeable aura that always sets his spidey-senses tingling, like the scent of mayhem on the wind, a harbinger of someone’s inevitable and inglorious downfall. (Although to be fair, these days it’s more like the faintest echo of danger, but his spidey-senses always remember.)
Relationships: Nolan Ross/Emily Thorne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20
Collections: Juletide 2020





	Let me up, let me out (Into the sun)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/gifts).



> Happy Juletide!! Hope you enjoy. :)

When she casually drops into the seat across from him, Nolan knows it's her before he even looks up from his drink. She has this unmistakeable aura that always sets his spidey-senses tingling, like the scent of mayhem on the wind, a harbinger of someone’s inevitable and inglorious downfall. (Although to be fair, these days it’s more like the faintest echo of danger, but his spidey-senses always remember.) He can’t control the shiver of anticipation that travels down his spine.

He quickly schools his expression, remembering that he’s _terribly peeved_ at her right now, and instead takes a slow and deliberate bite of his sandwich. Pretends like he hasn’t noticed her (as if that was even remotely possible).

After suffering six angst-filled months without so much as a text or a call or a bloody carrier pigeon, he’s entitled to a bit of sulking. Only one succinct and to-the-point postcard had arrived from Brazil that read _Taking some time. Don’t look for me._

No one would ever accuse her being effusive in her correspondence, that’s for sure.

With so little intel to go on, his imagination had subsequently kicked into overdrive, fabricating worst-case scenarios where she’d become lost in the rainforest or devoured by a giant man-eating python. The stuff of nightmares.

Because after the run they’ve had, nothing ever seems out of the realm of possibility. Even pythons.

In the end, the news had come from Jack. Turns out their marriage hadn’t held up under the weight of, well, everything, and Nolan can easily conjure up half a dozen possible reasons given all the baggage and heavy shit they were carrying around. Hell, he’s been left with his share of hang-ups and scars, too. But he cared about them both too much to pry, and Jack had simply left it with _Look out for her, will you?_

Dear, sweet Jack, the paragon. Too good to be true, the prince in the childhood fairy tale come to life. Your friend to the end and a literal saint to put up with Nolan’s constant clinginess and pestering.

( _If he can’t make her happy, then what chance do any of us have?_ )

Nolan quickly banishes that train of thought. He wipes his fingers on his napkin, taking his time, and then finally raises his gaze to meet hers.

His chest tightens as he drinks her in. She looks good. He hair is shorter than he remembers and she's wearing jeans and a faded black t-shirt, sharper edges worn down. His gaze lingers on her ring finger, now naked save for a faint tan line. Her eyes are softer, sadder, but still seem to be able to pierce him to his very core.

"Nolan."

He closes his eyes briefly. She's said his name so many times, often with that dangerous edge that makes the blood thrum under his skin, or that commanding tone that cuts like glass, or even a fond exasperation. But this version sounds cautious, almost uncertain, which is new. Nolan steeples his fingers under his chin and fixes her what he hopes is a suitably convincing scowl.

"Hey, Ems, it's been a minute."

The name rolls off his tongue before he remembers she's Amanda now. But she doesn't correct him, and he wonders if Amanda Clarke is another casualty of recent events.

There are a million things he wants to ask. _What happened to you and Jack? Where have you been? Why didn't you call? Why are you here now?_ But he lets the silence speak for him.

But Emily, ever the expert in evasive manoeuvres, simply scans the café patio with feigned interest.

“Nice spot you’ve found here.”

Nolan reclines in his seat and crosses his arms behind his head. So this is how it’s going to be.

“Oh, sure. Coffee’s good, food is edible, the waitstaff are easy on the eyes. No murderous lunatics hiding in the bushes…that I know of. Has a nice ambience to get the creative juices flowing.”

“Creative juices?” Emily arches an eyebrow.

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You haven’t been around in a while. I’m writing the Great American Novel.”

He waves carelessly at the laptop in front of him. “My therapist says I need a creative outlet to channel my ‘emotional trauma’, so this is it. My catharsis. I think you’ll like it – it’s a Cold War thriller featuring a plucky blonde heroine and her quirky yet loveable tech-guru sidekick who take down corrupt government officials and commie spies, all while looking absolutely fabulous.”

He waggles his eyebrows.

“Sounds riveting.” 

“Oh, it is, but surely not as riveting as the tale of your recent little excursion to Brazil?”

He lets the invitation dangle, but she doesn’t bite.

“What do you think about Canada?” she says instead. That throws him for a loop.

“I’m sorry, what?”

"Canada.” She sits up straighter, fiddles absently with her wristwatch. “You know that big country just above us?”

“Duh, I did graduate from elementary school. Polite people, dishy prime minister, too much snow…but why should I care?”

“We should go.”

“To Canada.”

“Yes.”

“You want to go to Canada. With me.”

“Yes.”

“Ok, I’ll bite. Are we talking next week, next year…?”

“I was thinking tomorrow.”

Nolan blinks. “Let me get this straight. You disappear for six months leaving me to think you’ve taken a starring role in the next Anaconda movie, and then you just expect me to drop everything and what, go on some insane road trip to Canada where we might be eaten by polar bears or carried off by giant ticks?”

From the look on Emily’s face, that’s exactly what she’s expecting.

“And that's it? No hidden strings or plot twists? Just Ems and Nolan taking a jaunt through the Great White North with no death, destruction, or bodily harm, unless you count us inevitably contracting Lyme disease?”

“That’s it. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

No is on the tip of his tongue. This is ridiculous. He's been through too damn much - too much heartache, too much time spent dancing to her tune and neck-deep in revenge-y obligations. He can’t just jump whenever she calls.

But on the other hand…she wants _him_. His company. Not for his tech wizardry or to aid and abet in some elaborate scheme that has a 50-50 chance of them ending up dead or in jail. She could have easily buggered off into the sunset, set up shop anywhere, with anyone. She’s rich, attractive, the world is her oyster.

Yet here she is. After what felt like an eternity of missing her, his heart leaping every time he saw a flash of blonde hair in the crowd, it’s surreal to have her next to him, solid, tangible, real. Not a ghost flitting tantalizingly around the corners of his mind.

And they’ve never really been in this place before. A place without attachments, obligations, people trying to kill them… he's pictured this so many times in his mind, variations on a theme. Leaving the revenge-verse behind and hitting the open road, seeing the world, so to speak. Never mind that he's more of an indoor guy who flees at the sight of a single mosquito. For her, he’d battle a veritable army of mosquitoes.

Because a life without Emily, well, sucks.

"That part of my life is over, Nolan. No strings, no plans, just you and me and some really delicious poutine.”

“Well, if there’s poutine, how can I refuse?”

Gratitude lights up her face. “You won’t regret it.”

Nolan throws a twenty on the table and stands.

“What are we waiting for, then? Let’s boogie.”

She's suddenly stepping into his space, her arms sliding around his waist, head resting on his chest. He's become good at reading her silences. This one says _I missed you_.

They fly to Vancouver and rent a car, a cherry-red convertible. Nolan insisted, despite Emily’s protests that it made them look like tacky tourists.

With her hair tied up in a scarf and her sunglasses on, she gives off that vintage movie star glamour, and he whoops as they head away from the airport and towards adventure.

They walk along the Pacific and take photos with driftwood the size of a city bus. He buys them a matching set of the cheesiest tourist-bait t-shirts he can find at the hotel gift shop - a deranged cartoon beaver screaming _welcome to Canada eh?_

"I'm not wearing that," she says, but she can't hide the smile that curls out from the corner of her mouth. He feels it down to his toes.

They feast on candied salmon and spend hours just sitting on the beach. Emily begs and pleads until he agrees to go hiking through the luminescent Jurassic-green forests, and she rewards him for his efforts with a sumptuous dinner - seafood stew that melts in the mouth, rum-grilled peaches, and decadent Spanish coffee.

Later, he complains about his blisters and Emily just laughs and throws a pillow at his head. She wears shorts and the beaver t-shirt as pyjamas, her hair tumbling out of a messy bun, and he thinks she's never looked more beautiful. After all those times he'd seen her in her immaculate couture gowns, gliding through the room so flawlessly composed, now her icy edges are thawing. She gets a sunburn after a day in Stanley Park, and it makes her seem that little bit more human.

Nolan thinks it feels strange to just _be_ without a backdrop of melodrama and plotting, but he loves it nonetheless.

She doesn’t talk about it until they reach Calgary, wild horse country, and even then, it’s the tiniest of admissions as they perch on a fence gazing over a scenic mountain vista.

“I wish it could have been enough. I wish _I_ could have been enough.”

He puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. She smiles thinly at him from under her lashes, but her hand closes over his, and this time in the silence he hears _thank you_.

In Saskatoon she finally cracks and cries into his shirt, like a dam has burst. He pats her back awkwardly, feeling as clumsy as an adolescent boy, but it's enough and she holds on tighter. Her eyes are rimmed red as they speed along the golden prairie highways, the Tragically Hip blasting from the stereo, but soon she’s humming along to the music and trailing her hand out the window.

He can tell the burden is slowly lifting as they climb the CN tower in Toronto. When they get to the top, she slips an arm around his waist as they look out over the glittering city lights.

They’re rained in to their hotel room, so they watch reruns of bad tvs shows and eat overpriced snacks from the mini bar, elbows bumping. She falls asleep against his shoulder. He’s rarely seen her sleep, because sleep is when you’re the most vulnerable, but there’s no need to be looking for things in the shadows any longer. Her forehead is smooth and free of worry lines. He brushes some hair out of her face. 

Montreal smells like fried food and is humming with creative energy. There is music everywhere, and street performers and acrobats fill the pedestrian walkways. She takes his hand so she doesn’t lose him in the crowd.

By the time they make it to the beautiful shores of the Bay of Fundy, she takes his hand on the beach even though there’s no need, slanting him a look as if daring him to question it.

It’s not until they are walking on the picturesque Halifax waterfront that he finally summons up the courage to reciprocate in this little game of casual intimacies, and something warm blooms inside when she doesn’t flinch or move away. Their fingers brush together, and Nolan takes a deep breath of sea air.

PEI is all crystal-clear water and warm sand. They get ice cream, and she licks away the sugary trail snaking down her wrist. She catches him staring at her two-piece and boldly meets his gaze. _Challenge accepted._ They eat fresh mussels until they’re sick and collapse back at the hotel in their clothes, limbs tangling together.

They follow the salt tang of the Atlantic all the way to Newfoundland, to the easternmost point of Canada. Standing in the shadow of the Cape Spear lighthouse, she says to him _What now?_

He takes her hand. “Oh Ems, you have to know. You have to know.”

She rises up on her toes and kisses him. 

Returning the rental and buying plane tickets home feels like less of an ending and more of a beginning. There’s a spring in Nolan’s step as they navigate customs and crowds of tourists speaking every conceivable language. He gives a jolly wave to a passing flight attendant, who looks at him like he's crazy.

Emily would kick his ass if he did something chivalrous like offering to carry her luggage, so he settles for buying them some crappy airport coffee and mini donuts. And later, when she's tucked into his side and the plane’s engines are coming to life beneath them, he feels like they are being launched into a great, wonderful unknown. He closes his eyes and smiles.


End file.
